


“it’s not heavy. i’m stronger than i look.”

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [22]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: George and Alexander relax in their new home, reading and trying to keep their eyes open.Canon Era.Written for the twenty-second prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/George Mukherjee
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	“it’s not heavy. i’m stronger than i look.”

I feel as if I should explode form the feeling of being content that rests deep in my heart, a warmth that blossoms across my entire chest.

Perhaps I should rephrase, as that makes it sound as if I should die at any moment soon. 

George and I have half-finishing moving into our new apartment. Admittedly, it’s rather shoddy compared to the backgrounds we come from, low light and failing heating, but it’s a new building that is full of empty rooms and freshly-painted walls, space for pictures and furniture and promises and memories. 

It’s a space where we can exist. Not even George — who thinks I am horrifyingly sentimental — can disagree with that.

Which is why we’re doing what we’re doing now.

I’m sprawled over the sofa with my head in George’s lap, half asleep but desperately trying to keep my eyes open for the sake of spending more time with George. Meanwhile, George leafs through a copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ and flicks a red pen across the pages. As he reads, he murmurs aloud as he has always done, gracing me with whispers of words such as ‘Darcy’, ‘tolerable’, ‘matrimony’, and ‘entailment’.

“You sound clever,” I mumble. “Perhaps you should speak like you’re from a seventeenth-century novel at all times.”

He looks away from the pages of the book and down at my face, setting down his red pen down on the side table, one of the only pieces of furniture we have brought in. All that’s on it is a stack of George’s books, his fountain pen kit, and a lamp.

“You,” he announces, “are the absolute most sappy and utterly ridiculous person I know.”

My speech slurred from tiredness, I tilt my head upwards to look him in his dark eyes. “Y’ love me, though.”

“Goodness knows why.” With his free hand, he reaches down and brushes a hand through my hair. “You need to get your hair cut, Alex.”

With a snort, I say, “Are y’ able to compl’ment me without being unkind on the surface?”

“Absolutely not.”

After a few moments, I say, “Read to me.”

“What?” He looks down at me, incredulous.

“Read to me from where we got to before.”

Sighing with playful irritation, he turns back the pages. “Back to Darcy just having burst in on Elizabeth alone, then?”

I nod.

“‘In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,’” George reads aloud, voice haughty for Darcy, wrought with panic. “Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority— of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.”

I sit up with a jerk. “What?! He proposed?”

Rolling his eyes, George grins. “Of course. Say, do you want a drink?”

“Wine?”

“Naturally.”

He places down the book and picks around the boxes yet to be unpacked, finding the box of glasses. He attempts to pull it down from where I put it, with great difficulty.

“Need a hand?”

“It’s not heavy,” he protests, standing on his toes and tugging. “I’m stronger than I look.”

“And I am the emperor of Japan,” I snort, jumping up and walking over, swiping the box from the stack it is on. “There.”

He scowls. “Tall idiot.”

“You love me really.”

Instead of an insult, George’s tensed demeanour sags. “That I do.” He turns and leans up to me, one hand on my jaw as he kisses me.

“Ah, there you are.”

He rolls his eyes. “You only like me when I’m a romantic.”

“I only like you when you aren’t hiding behind what society has made you.”

I’m surprised that I’ve said that. It’s far too sentimental for me. George looks alarmed too, but perhaps a little bit soft. “You, Alexander, are unbelievable.”

“Proudly.”

He kisses me hard again, and the wine glasses are forgotten.


End file.
